


The Strangest of Dances

by Andartha, redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A little bit of blood, Brock doesn't see it coming, Fools Rush In - Freeform, M/M, Queen of Denying of his feelings, Steve is under the radar as usual, a bit of pain, but knows what he wants, one concussion and one surprising kiss, origin fic, pizza dough, serious teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andartha/pseuds/Andartha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra honeytrap?   Old-fashioned hero worship?  Lost a bet to his fellow Hydra agents?  </p><p>The surprising answer to just how and why Rumlow seduced the innocent Captain Rogers.</p><p>He didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strangest of Dances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weirdlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdlet/gifts).



> for @weirdlet...a little Fools Rush In gapfill. Thanks so much for a marvellous inspiring work

“Dad, how did you feel when Mom first kissed you?”  

Benji asks this one day, brave and daring and just a little worried, because sometimes it is all a little confusing.  

He knows Dad and Buck were _first_ , were friends forever and mates since before the war, but Mom came later, and though he _knows_ they love Brock just as much,  Benji is still kind of fuzzy on quite how Dad _knew._ How Steve realized Brock was special when he already had a mate? 

The boy stares intently at his plate, feeling a little awkward to have just come out and asked, but Ms.Myrna always says in class that if they don’t know something they’re supposed to speak right up.    Benji gets that Mom and Dad are not like Sam: they don’t talk about their feelings quite so easily, but he really needs to understand, to fit the pieces of the puzzle, bit by bit.  Was it special, like a bolt out of the blue or something quiet that padded in on little feet and took him unawares?  It must have something to do with being kissed because he’s seen Steve’s blinding smile the rare times Brock dips his head and pecks him on the cheek.

Forks pause all around the dining table and Buck is grinning, looking from Brock, who has raised an eyebrow, to Steve, who is blushing, bright red, all the way to the roots of his slightly tousled hair.

“Actually it was the other way around.”

\-----------------------------------------

“Hey… that looks bad.”  

Brock starts at the unexpected sound of Rogers’ voice, then curses below his breath because the sudden jerk was clearly _not_ a recommended action.  The stab of pain and queasiness has grabbed him hard but he is _not_ to going to raise a hand to his aching head, not in front of _him_.                 

The post-mission adrenaline is just starting to ease off and fuck, now any sudden movement makes his skull feel like a platoon of marines is marching round it double time. Perhaps the hit was harder than he thought.

 _Damn._   He’d not heard the bigger man take a step, much less sidle up right behind.  Granted, for a big guy Rogers can be awfully quiet when he wants to… but _still_. 

_C’mon Rumlow get a grip..Focus…_

“S’fine,”  Brock mumbles, swiping quickly at the last damp patches under his pits, tossing the wet towel (2 points) into the hamper.

They are the only ones in the locker room, the last stragglers after Team Alpha have cleaned up and sought the bar or been cleaned up and sought their beds. No serious injuries this time, thank Christ. At this point, all Brock wants, is to get dressed, collect his stuff and head home. Maybe find a beer. Maybe find a takeaway, though his stomach tilts crazily at the thought of food.  

No such luck.  He can feel indigo eyes staring intently at his head.  

“It’s bleeding.”    

Gingerly, he raises his hand and feels a small, but steady trickle of warm wet through his close cropped raven hair. Rogers is right. 

_Shit_. 

He must be a little buzzed, ‘cuz though it’s easy to overlook injuries in the heat of the battle, he hadn’t even noticed that the towel on the bench that he’d used to dry his hair sports a red patch blooming like a ragged poppy against the white. 

He’ll never hear the end of it from Hayes.  He’d not let their medic check him properly; had waved him off to see to Asena. The man was bitching about his broken fingers like a concert pianist who might never play again. Rubbing with the towel must have re-opened a full-on laceration he’d taken for no more than a minor bump.  

Just his luck that even Hydra’s little gifts (the _enhancements_ he doesn’t want Rogers or anybody at S.H.I.E.L.D. to know about) can’t keep scalp wounds from bleeding like total fuck.

“Hold on.”    

Brock just about jumps out of his skin when Rogers steps right up close behind him. He can feel the alpha’s hand ghost a line along his neck. Large, strong fingers stop, poised just behind one ear, and lightly touch his own finer ones.  They lift his hand away so Steve can get a better look and then just…

…. _Hnng._   

Cap’s breath is hot against his neck and suddenly he can’t help it. Brock’s panting slightly. It’s not fight or flight, just ….. _oh god_ …  It feels…so…. good.  

“It’ll stop.” Brock is embarrassed, puzzled by his own reaction, but damned if he will show it. He twists out of Steve’s touch, tosses a warning glance, careful to keep a healthy several inches breathing space between them both.  

_It doesn’t help._

Every nerve ending in his body is aware that he is _naked_. That Steve bloody Rogers and his gorgeously-enhanced body is looming close behind him, covered in nothing but a regulation towel.  

He swears that he can still feel an echo on his skin of where those fingers touched.    

 _What the fuck?_   He has worked hard for his iron, military-grade self-control and this is _backsliding_. Brock holds his thighs closed and turns his ass away, because he can feel himself starting to get wet and he _knows_ it’s not showing, but if he stays where he is, heaven forbid spreads his legs a little like he _wants to_ , Cap is bound to _scent_ his interest sooner or later.

“Hold still.”  The quiet command comes even as he takes a determined step away and reaches for a shirt. He needs to stop as another spell of dizziness hits. 

Shit. Brock would growl at any other guy for ordering him around and being in _his_ space, never mind making him lose his hard-won discipline, but fuck it, this is _Rogers_ and his blood is pounding and he does what he is told. His bicep is caught in a steadying grip like an iron band.  It should be comforting.  Captain effin’ America is showing concern for his well-being, but instead, there’s a panicked flash of _‘Shit this must be what it’s like for perps’_ and an intense desire to be anywhere but here. He feels cornered like a _rat,_ but there is no way he’s gonna break that hold and so he stands, trying to not show that he’s rattled by the contact. By the touch.  By the _scent_. Steve is still standing so very close and Brock can smell something musky, a little smoke in the undertone, a little honey sweet, with a just a touch of sour vinegar.   _Pure Alpha…_

It goes against every damn instinct he’s trained into himself, but Brock’s groin just _twists_.  

This is ridiculous. He is not the type of bitch to react to every Alpha who comes sniffing by. With his STRIKE-brothers on the team, the question never even comes up.   He is a _professional,_ can turn it off and on at will; and though it’s been a while since he was a young thing playing the honey-pot, his leather-encased, hard-honed physique still drives the lads and ladies wild.  He has no trouble pulling someone at the clubs, especially the big, buff ‘n blonde ones who love to tuck a short, stacked, dark firecracker under their muscled arms.

Really, it’s not like he’s gone so long without that he’ll go for just anyone. Brock is _not_ a horny teenager. He has been on suppressants for most of his career, because nobody wants to risk the inconvenience or danger of a heat, especially on an _op_ , and he is nowhere near his scheduled downtime, so that’s by no means an explanation or any kind of excuse for him to react to Cap.  

  _Jesus_ the big guy must be hitting all his buttons and hitting them pretty hard to have him _not_ call the shots.   Brock has grown _the fuck up_ since his wild and untamed youth: he is always the one to pick ‘em, the one to drive.  To say how far and where’s he’s going, at least for his R and R.   His life is in control (as much as it can be, when one’s strings are pulled by a secret puppet-master) and just what the hell makes him think _Rogers is even interested anyway_?  Cap’s whole world revolves around taking down the next bad guy, solving the next crisis.  Hell, fraternizing isn’t even something that he does as far as Brock can tell.   The guy has never made it to one of their legendary BBQ’s (Jack’s burgers _are_ something worth killing for); doesn’t hang out with anybody else in his free time, so this? This is probably just Cap being a mother hen.  Concerned about one of his team.  

And that is just the way it should stay. Brock has NOT been ordered to seduce the guy, and if he gets involved, (however easy that might be _)_ , it _might_ make things messier than HYDRA would like them to be at this point.  

(Rogers’ attractiveness unsettling him way more than it should has _nothing_ to do with him putting a lid on it, hard. Nothing.)

The inquisitive touch continues, gentle and reassuring. He forces himself not to wince as the edge of the cut is delicately probed.    

“It looks pretty deep and jagged, Rumlow.  A flap. It won’t knit. You need a medic. ”  

 _Fuuuck._ Hayes is going to give him hell for sure.

Brocks blows out a steadying breath, ignores the growing headache and ponders the lesser of the shitty options.

As a matter of policy he avoids S.H.I.E.L.D. medical wherever possible. The _upgrades_ , the needles and experimental juice that Hydra tech has pumped into him and his Team make them heal faster than they should, but they also mean he and all other Enhanced all have strict orders to minimize the possibility of anyone noticing.  And he knows the sick-bay on this base is _not_ Hydra-run.

  _Tough it out._

 A determined cough and glare, a shift back with his shoulder and Steve gets the hint, gives him a bit more space.  

 The big baby blues have their famous 'Concerned Look' on, so hush puppy it would be comical if it wasn’t so annoying. Captain America is worried about _him_ , and isn’t that something to send an omega’s heart aflutter…..but then, that star-spangled heart worries about a lot of things.  

Brock need not be one of them. He’s not just some sweet little omega; he is a STRIKE commander and nobody’s bitch, definitely not someone to be treated like a helpless little git, on the rag and needing to be coddled. Anger flares up in the pit of his stomach, makes him wind up to bite back with sting, and he lifts his chin and stares full on into that too perfect face, jaw clenched.

It is puzzled and just a little too intent. _And gorgeous._ _Fuck._   

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax. Time to dial it down a notch. This is _Captain_ Rogers. Trying to save the day and take good care of the people under his command, as usual. He’s skirting the edge of being unnecessarily rude, and that will get him noticed in ways that are….unhelpful.   _Nothing to see here, move along._

“Look, thanks,” Brock says, glancing away, sliding an arm through the sleeve of his fresh shirt  while trying to think quickly of some plausible excuse. “I don’t know what it’s like for you, prize specimen an’ all, but for me the wait’ll take for fucking ever and I just want to chill.  Got steri-strips right here,“ he says, gesturing to the med kit sitting on the top shelf of his locker. They’re special SHIELD issue, magnetic, so he won’t even have to shave his hair around the wound to make them stick, and they’ll hold no matter what.

“It stopped before. I’ll clean it, patch it tight and get some shut-eye.”  

The pouty expressive mouth twists ruefully. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called him a specimen. 

“Actually they’d worry more about you than me, Rumlow.  Take more care, checking every little freakin’ thing. But if you’re sure….”  

Rogers’ words trail off.  He looks uncertain but half-willing to be convinced.  

Brock nods and turns back to his own locker. _Thank god._ He grabs a cleaning rag from his duffle on the bench and wads it up, settles it between his collar and his neck because god knows he hates doing laundry almost as much as briefings.  Opens the compact field surgical kit and extracts two sheets of the little strips. Unhelpfully, his hands are trembling just a little and one of the sheets flutters to the floor.  He crouches down to pick it up and …..

 _Yeeoww…_       

Despite his careful movement, pain lances through his skull and he sways. Shoots out an arm to grab onto the locker door and gets muscle-banded flesh instead.  

  _Bloody hell._ Spots are swimming before his eyes.Looks like he got clocked even harder than he realized.  

Warily, with those strong arms, those strong hands supporting him, he straightens up.  Forgoes a nod, but quirks a smile in thanks, hoping it will make the Cap stand down from protective Alpha mode because what _he really doesn’t need right now_ is an enemy supersolider fussing when he’s a little off his game.   

No such luck. There is no hiding from the burning baby blues. “You’re dizzy Rumlow.  It is not _just_ a gash and now that I look at it that thing’s bleeding too much for the strips to be sufficient. Pretty sure that Hayes would agree with me. I’m getting dressed and then I’m taking you to see a medic.  That’s an order, Commander.”    

Strictly speaking, off the field Rogers can’t order Brock around like that: he is entitled to ignore those words but damn, this is getting tricky and Rogers, the blackmailing bastard, is clearly not above using his own team’s dynamics against him.  Reluctantly, Brock shuts his trap, finishes dressing as quickly as he can and not too many minutes later they walk through the big glass doors of S.H.I.E.L.D. med, Brock pressing a wad of sterile gauze to his head, hard.  No point in ruining another shirt.

Steve asks where the triage nurse is and they are ushered into an exam room, far more quickly than he would have guessed. Yup, just as he thought:  the prize specimen gets preferential treatment, because despite what Rogers has said, there are other people sitting in the waiting room, some of them looking more banged up than him, and under the circumstances, Brock wouldn’t usually get treated quite so fast.

Rogers takes the low chair beside the desk and Brock sits up on the exam bed, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the bright white lights. They are making his headache worse, but hell could freeze over before he will mention it. 

The nurse bustles in, frowns at the compresses he has pressed against his head.   They are almost soaked red through and through.

“Commander Rumlow, let’s deal with that, shall we.”    She’s an older woman, short, no-nonsense, not one he’s met before, but frighteningly efficient. Probes the wound far less gently than Rogers did and gets to work: swabbing the area and laying out sutures and a hypodermic on a fresh pad beside him on the bed.  

A local for a few lousy stitches?   _Really?_   

“Don’t need that,” he grouses, “I can hold still.”  

She huffs, shakes her head, presses a few drops up and sticks the needle in behind his ear anyway.

 _Jesus-fuck_ it stings.  

The witch is smiling as he grits his teeth.  “I know you _can_ Commander, but I pride myself on my technique and just in case you run to bald in your later years, I’m making sure it looks as pretty as I can.”

From his left, he hears a strangled snort. Rogers is lounged in the chair, idly flipping a tongue depressor through his fingers, trying and failing not to grin. The guy can’t fake neutral and uninterested for shit. Neither with his words or his pretty face.

A few neat stitches are set in and clean bandage is applied. Brock starts to feel a little woozy, bites his lip and bravely makes the type of small talk that gives him a headache even when he doesn’t already hurt.  

Turns out he can’t fool the professional at his side. “Commander how did this happen?”  The older woman is frowning, staring up at him intently, checking his pupils for symmetry.

 _Stick to the truth whenever it won’t compromise the mission_.  “I connected with the ground.”  

“Connected?”  

Brock flushes. This bit is embarrassing.  “I had to jump a bit farther than I anticipated. Didn’t quite make it. Blew my tuck and roll and fell back when I hit the ground.”

A pair of neatly-plucked auburn brows narrow thoughtfully.  “How far down?”   

Warning klaxons are vying with the ringing in his ears as he wracks his brain, taking a moment to remember where Rogers was in the combat zone.  His instinct is to minimize the height, but if Cap knew where he had been, there is no point.

“Fifteen….maybe twenty feet.”  

Rogers seems to be a helluva lot less blasé about other people pulling stunts, because he sits a little straighter.

“Just HOW dizzy are you?”

Well fuck.  Before he can say anything the nurse has pressed a buzzer on her headset and called through to comms.   “Sir, you were damn lucky. I think I’d like the doctor to check you over.”

Nothing for it but to wait patiently while he is poked and prodded a little more, rolling his eyes at Cap behind the doctor’s back and ignoring the rising pounding in his head.  

He fails miserably when the nice young doc (fresh out of residence most like) frowns and asks him to walk a standard line. Glares balefully when Rogers unhelpfully gives up intel.

“He was staggering earlier, moving too quickly.”  

“But not right now.” He’s tracking fine, knows he is.

The young doctor looks at the ceiling and visibly counts to three. He is learning that it takes a certain style of debriefing to pull the answers that he needs. “Complete and accurate responses are required Sir. Any other symptoms you’d like to share?”  

Brock shakes his head sullenly and very gently.

“Congratulations Commander, you have _at least_ a concussion.”  

“I do?”  

_He does?_

_Shit._     

Why had he not realised?  

 _Because you got your bell rung, idiot._  Not processing input properly.  And that explains a lot.  Like why he thought the now slightly smug, well-muscled  asshole sitting on the rickety exam room chair would have even noticed his sorry ass.  

After the unwelcome news he has to be patient while the protocols are followed to the letter. The doctors do not want to miss anything that might impair an asset that’s been invested in and so Brock _tries_ not to bitch too much through the battery of neurologic tests.  Tells Rogers to kiss his ass when the big guy chuckles at his yelp as he lays his head back for the CT scan.   It is not a freudian slip (hell no) and isn’t it just the fucking living end when they let Rogers stay for everything, including the test results, as if he’s not Brock’s superior but family or, god forbid, a boyfriend.     

The absolute final straw comes when they ask if he might be pregnant before handing out pain meds.

Rogers pointedly looks away but Brock is blushing furiously.  His quick “No’ can only be read as an admission of abstinence (there _are_ more important things to focus on these days) but the hell?  Why should he care that Rogers _knows_?

The young doctor is frowning thoughtfully, watching him. He is _not_ woozy just sitting still, merely tired after the op.     “I think we will keep you overnight for observation, sir.”  

“No way…”   He bristles, ready for a fight because the guy has now slipped on a ‘don’t fuck with me face’, and two can play at that. Before he can put up a fight, Cap speaks up.  

“I’ll stay with him.”

Brock’s protest is automatic. “My couch isn’t long enough for _you_.“   _And possibly not even his bed…_ Rogers has a good four inches on him and his apartment isn’t that big. Doesn’t have to be, when he’s hardly home.

“You can crash at my place.  I’ve got two bedrooms.”    

The doctor seems mollified by that. Gives him a script for more pain meds in case of need, and five days off, and the standard warnings about worsening symptoms etc.. He’s to check in again for a re-eval but knows from experience that it’ll take him only a day or two to be back to normal.  

With a sigh he acquiesces gracefully because to do otherwise might look a little odd.  

Staying with Rogers overnight will probably be ok. He tells himself he’s shacked up with Cap on missions before, and anyway, he’s never been the type to talk in his sleep, no loud nightmares, no other chance of blurting out things the good Captain shouldn’t hear. After all these years of sleeping, working, eating, breathing in their enemy’s lair, he’s not going to blow his cover over something so trifling as an impromptu sleep-over: even if it is with a national icon he has admired since he was a boy.  

Order…Brock appreciates order in his life and his person both.  It’s purely the sudden change of plans that’s got him stressed, got his hands a little sweaty, not the thought of a night in Roger’s own apartment.

The good Cap, ever the gentlemen, reaches down and grabs Brock’s bag, gesturing for him to lead the way.  

The omega sighs and walks out into the warm evening air, grinning sharply at the bitter irony of life.  

This wasn’t how he’d planned to end his day at all.

——————————

From the state of Mr. Perfect America’s apartment, sleekly and impersonally furnished as if straight out of an IKEA catalogue, it becomes clear that Rogers appreciates order not so much.  

It’s not quite a tip, but Jesus the place is a riot of so much _stuff_.  Half-finished canvases are scattered round the sunlit space, half-empty tubes of paint lie randomly like spent cartridges on every horizontal surface.  

It is cluttered, but weirdly intriguing: the sense of abandon makes Brock’s neat gene itch and his heart just a little excited all at once.  Never expected the good Captain to be passionate about anything but work.  Although, passion may not be the word.   From the dark and moody, slightly depressing, hues on the palettes, if Brock didn’t know better he’d say it looked like angst.

“Nice place.”  

Steve emerges from the bedroom, barefoot, with a clean t-shirt and a forlorn, slightly sheepish smile.  

“Not here too much.  But it serves its’ purpose.” He shrugs and waves Brock into simple, spartan kitchen.    

Rogers busies himself pulling square glasses from a light wood cabinet and fishes with one hand in the massive fridge. From what Brock can see the thing is almost full. He knows it takes a lot of calories to fuel a supersoldier, but still, this is clearly not like his own place, where the only thing that routinely lives on the shelf these days is condiments. Life has become a tad too busy and real cooking is a treat: reserved for the rare down-time he spends with the team.

Brock moves some newspapers from a stool at the raised black granite bar and settles himself into a seat.  

“You need electrolytes.” Some sort of bright red rehydration drink is poured into both glasses, ice cubes follow and for a good measure slices of fresh orange are attached.  

“Sláinte.” Rogers has made himself a drink too and it vanishes in one gulp.  Brock sips the slightly sweet drink more slowly and plays with the orange slice, making the ice cubes rattle.  His stomach is better now that he’s had pain meds, but it doesn’t hurt to take it a little slow.  

A second glass of red stuff is downed and Rogers is back rooting in the fridge. He stops, as if having just remembered he is not alone, and grins back over his shoulder at his guest.  “I’m starving. Ok if I make some dinner before showing you your room?”  

He shrugs.  “Fine by me.”    

Brock’s not very hungry, but of course they all know they need to refuel after a mission. He’s wondering just how much food exactly it takes to fill up Rogers’ substantial bulk (he’s knows the Soldier’s mission needs but they are sadly mostly met with protein shakes) when the blond head reappears from out of the frost.  

“Margherita pizza ok?”  

At his nod, Rumlow expects the guy to pull some boxes from the freezer, but no: ready-made dough and tomatoes, fresh basil and a round ball of soft shiny mozzarella are produced. A short apron gets quickly tied around Rogers’ waist.  Wow. The big guy means business.  He can cook. Not exactly a standard skill for most alphas,  but on reflection it makes total sense. Take-out was a _luxury_ when Rogers was growing up.  .

“What can I do?”

“Supervise,”  

But then Rogers catches the wistful look in Brock’s eye and grins. Brock’s fingers are suddenly itching to get some proper cooking done and it must show.

“On second thought, why don’t you cut up the herbs and cheese while I take care of the rest?”

They spend the next fifteen minutes in a weirdly easy kind of dance. Rogers fiddles with the oven and the baking tray, rolls out the dough, does the heavy dicing while Brock tests the performance of a wickedly sharp japanese paring knife.    

Small-talk comes completely naturally and makes Brock wary: as interrogation techniques go, this is pretty low key, but he’s used his own easy charm far too often to get in with a mark. The big guy is suspiciously easy to talk too, thawing up to a degree Brock has never seen before: Steve is smiling and almost _excited_. So stupid pleased to have him there, its like a dog at the pound wagging its’ tail when potential new owners walk down the aisle.  It occurs to Brock suddenly, Jesus the guy is _lonely_ , needs company, and the knowledge sends the pit of his stomach into funny little flip-flops.  

Disconcertingly, he finds himself answering every question asked with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary.  

“Yankees or Mets?”“

“Mets.”

“Hockey or baseball?”

Brock grins, because he’s pretty sure this is going to be a new one for Steve.

“MMA.”  

“MoMa?” Steve asks, puzzled, as he carefully drops Brocks’s finely cut up basil leaves across the white and red landscape already waiting on the baking tray. (Amazing. Even the food Rogers makes  fucking well looks like art.)  

“No. Mixed martial arts. Competitive. Kickboxing and the like.”  

Rogers smiles. God, his eyes can light up a room and there is something about his hands. Brock is watching, mesmerized, as they lightly, fluidly grab the last of the ingredients and parse them out on top of the soft dough that’s already starting to rise a bit.  

The smell from the herbs and fresh tomatoes is heavenly and gets even better when the pizza is slipped into the blazing wall oven.  

We should watch a few fights.” Brock says, laughing at himself inside because in the back of his head, he’s already picking out videos to show the guy.

“If you’ll cook with me again,” Steve grins and “Any time,” falls easily from Brock’s lips.

The concussion must be a mite worse than he thought, because Brock feels a little loopy, weirdly buzzed at the easiness of hanging, just listening to Rogers shoot the breeze. It’s kinda nice, kinda real, not something that he’s used to having with anybody outside of STRIKE, certainly not with anybody he’s _interested in_ , and the warmth as well as the yeasty, tangy smell from the oven make his mouth water and his stomach growl loudly.  Rogers chuckles at the sound and Brock is blushing once again, even as he grins right back.

Rogers has pulled a salad-mix from the fridge and is now tossing it with a bit of garlic, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, to make a quick, simple salad. Brock feels suddenly tired by watching all the _industry_ , knows from experience that if he’s going to stay awake he needs to get up and move.  

Least he can do is lay the table so he stands and steps over to reach for the plates and forks that Steve already gathered.    

An amused blond eyebrow stops him in his tracks. “Where do you think you are going?”  

“Parasailing, what do you think?”  

That gets a snort but a wooden salad tong points to his still warm stool until he has reclaimed it.  

“Would you stop babying me.”

“I am not babying you. I am taking care of a team member the way you would, Rumlow.”

“I do not _take care_ of my team Captain….I mould them. Through strict order and a little pain.”

”Wow. Is that what it is like?” the big guy asks, one eyebrow raised, “Commanding a STRIKE team as an omega?”

Brock sits back, shoulders stiffening.  Oh puh-lease….not that again. He did not take _him_ for one of those. 

“What it’s like is work,” he all but snarls, but then catches the big blond alpha’s laughing eyes and _something_ tells him that Rogers is _pulling his leg_.  Poking the bear, fucking well _teasing him,_ and damn, _he of all people_ shouldn’t have forgotten that the guy had no trouble letting his omega mate fight alongside him in the war. He even made Barnes his goddamn SIC, in a time where omegas were supposed to stick to nursing and code-breaking and not get their dainty little hands all bloody. 

Brock _glares_. Steve is now outright laughing at him because damn if he isn’t amused by the fact Brock has only now caught on to him: Rogers can be a teasing little shit if you let him, but then the blond raises his hands in mock surrender.

“From what I’ve heard, guys’ll do anything to be on Team Alpha. ‘Cause their leader might be a hardass, but also goes the extra mile for _them_.”  

Shit, Brock is not himself. First he snaps at the guy, something you shouldn’t do to your CO, _especially_ when he has been nice enough to take care of your incapacitated butt, and second, to top things off, he cannot stop the flush of full body pride at said CO’s compliment.

“Yeah….well, “ he says, feeling an unwelcome heat stain his cheeks, “if they say so, far be it from me to contradict them.”

Rogers nods. Brock doesn’t have to stress how loyalty goes both ways for Rogers to get it. It is his style too, even if it’s a little softer in the tone.  

The alpha’s smile broadens into a grin.  “Sounds like you know your way around a ring. Think you could teach this old dog a new trick or two? ”

”Think the old dog can take being bossed by an omega?”  

A pair of shit-eating grins suddenly face each other across the expanse of polished black. Brock can see his reflection in the granite. And Steve’s.  

The funny little flutter in his stomach starts to pull somersaults.

 _My god_ _the man is gorgeous_.  Not artsy ‘Greek god I can admire from afar’  gorgeous but the ‘I am thirsty and he is my well,” variety.He licks lips gone suddenly dry as Fury’s sense of humour.

_What the hell is happening?_

Brock’s glass is empty and he really needs a drink. Maybe something a bit more fortifying than red sugar-water with electrolytes.  

“What does a guy need to do to get a beer ‘round here?”

“No dice.”  Steve shakes his head “You know enough field med to know no alcohol with a head injury.  And it thins the blood.”  

“Now what are you, my mother?” Brock is sputtering in protest, totally unprepared for what happens next.    

Very slowly, Steve leans across the countertop and places one hand upon Brock’s neck, watching him intently for a long heart-stopping moment.   Eyes gone wide, Brock nods, pretty certain he knows what the question is, though Steve has not said a word.  

Ever so gently, the bigger man pulls him forward, presses questing lips to the scent gland behind his ear.

 _Nngghh._   

Brock feels his toes curling up, feels every drop of blood above his hips plunge south and his own scent rise.  It takes all his snapping sense of order not to groan.

The beautiful, hulking bastard of a not-so-forties-proper alpha smiles and shakes his head  

“Your mom? Not even close…”


End file.
